Natasha wakes to find herself supported, the pull of gravity through her bones, and she guesses someone had taken her to rest up somewhere. The feel of expensive fabrics are pulled taught under her fingertips and the scent of Summer fills her nose, the sweet smell of flowers, flora in bloom.
Tentatively, she comes around one eye at a time, stretches and relaxes her body. The room she had been taken to is completely white, with gold facade decor and rustic wooden furniture.
The ocean sounds are now gone, but the hubbub from a nearby crowd still remains. Nat pushes herself up on her elbows and swings her legs off the bed. Her eyes widen and she feels them water as she lands her gaze on a flowing peach dress, floor length with long sleeve arms and roughly her size if she was to hazard a guess. She creeps towards it. Attached is a handwritten note on a piece of parchment written in simple words. "Put it on."
Questions flicker through her mind as to who gave it her and who would know her measurements and more to the point. Where the Hell was she?
Natasha opens her mouth then shuts it again, looks down at what she's wearing. A simple pair of jeans and a hoodie with a mustard coloured jacket. Where could she be where dressing that way would be offensive?
Undressing, she leaves her bra on as well as her underwear and pulls the dress off the silk hanger. Nat sweeps over to the window, attempting to catch a reflection in the glass; hindered without a mirror in the room.
Unfamiliar with the dress, she hangs it low, level with her navel and tries stepping into it, but to no avail. Instead, she gathers it up in her hands as best she can and tosses it over her head, unfazed as she is blinded for a few minutes by layers of cream and peach fabric, she manages to stuff her head though, roughly pulling it down over her bust and her waist. Arms managing to find their correct holes, Nat rights the screwed dress over her hips until it reaches the floor and any creases were but a distant memory.
Seeing how she wasn't supplied with another pair of footwear, Nat keeps her own boots on. Probably a good thing, she guesses. Nat perches on the end of the bed, lets out a sigh. Finding the dress is breathable and comfortable and doesn't restrict her movement.
Beyond the double golden doors, she hears distance movement, heavy footfalls like that of a soldier. Mithered in heavy armour, marching in formation. Yet not a word spoken between them.
The doors eventually open, and two of the armoured demons, soldiers, march through. Both handsome, tall and impressively well built. The one on the right barks an order at her. "His Majesty would like to speak with you in the throne room."
Nat stands, erases any fear that could have creeped into her eyes. She lifts up the bottom of the dress and advances past the men and through the open doors.
They walk down a corridor of the finest white marble and other fine decor, fair maids pull their ladies aside to let the stranger by, worried glances and concerns in hushed tones are uttered before they swiftly entered a room bigger than if every room in Stark Tower was laid out side by side.
The floor, a deep chocolate brown, etched and engraved with a myriad of Nordic ancient runes all intricate and entwined with one another so they all formed a single piece. Nat feels her stomach doing the twisting thing again.
She lifts her gaze, onto that of an elderly man, no more than eighty if she were to hazard a guess. Bearing only one eye, his hair, grey, and long passed his shoulders. Yet he was wearing the finest set of robes and gleaming armour she had ever seen. Frail, yet with a confidence that begged respect.
Natasha clears her throat. "My Lord?"
"Ah, Lady Romanoff, I am very pleased you took the journey." The god greeted and with a wave of his hand begged her closer.
"Why am I here?" Something was odd, wrong. There was a slight quirk on his face, the familiar curve of lips she couldn't quite connect to anything.
The smile fell and he grit his teeth. "I am in need of a representative for Midgard. After consideration and the reports I have gotten from my loyal servant Heimdall" (while he lasted) "you fit quite perfectly. Insight and a sharp mind."
"There are others who can do the job. I'm not a diplomat, I'm a spy." Her mind jogs for a time where Odin may have seen her in action. Or when Thor maybe have passed on word regarding her skills.
"We should continue this conversation in private. Please, accompany me to my chambers and I will explain."
He dismisses the Einherjar soldiers with a simple wave of his hand and gestures for her to follow him. After a journey of mere minutes they arrive at his chambers. Grand, as she would have expected, housing a four poster bed with canopy and various ornaments and arrangements.
Her heart jumps into her mouth as something shiny and horned catches her eye at the edge of the room.
She hears the doors close and lock behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle with uncertainty.
"Little spider."
A chill runs down her spine, turning it to ice.
Fate hands Nat vengeance.
An attempt, singular, graceful. Fleeting.
Ending a reign, slaying a God where he sleeps.
They say gods don't bleed.
Make him.
Nat whirls in a second, fist tight, raises her arm and jut the bone into his throat. Pushing his Adams apple into his windpipe. Enraged, he makes a strangled noise, momentarily without air. She jabs him in the chest with her free hand, he, a marionette on the end of her string.
Ferocious, a spider and her fly. Her hand shoots him into the nearest surface with ferocity. His back impacts the nearest wall. Heavy leather muffled the sound of him colliding with brick.
And he grins.
Nat slaps him. Childish, a product of revenge. Bubbling under, threatening to burst.
Hands shaking, toxic adrenaline in her veins. Not the cold assassin she was.
Loki hisses, annoyed, he swipes a hand through the air, severing her stranglehold.
Momentarily dumbfounded, her center of gravity misplaced, falling and drowning in air. Her back slams into the marble floor, cold and unforgiving. Just like him.
He pounces on top of her, eyes full of fire and malice. Yet, nauseatingly, he smiles. "Well that wasn't nice." He says, face taught with malice. "I had you brought here and given the finest treatment and that's how you treat me in kind? Well, I must say, Ms. Romanoff. I'm disappointed."
"You attacked Earth, you've killed and hurt so many people. You deserve it."
Snarling, he gets up and stands, his chest heaving with every breath.
She expected a boot in the ribs.
But he doesn't.
"You think I acted alone? That my plan was of my own making?" Loki whirls round to face her, eyes full of fire again. "I had to bend the knee for Thanos to stop..." He trails off.
Nat scrambles up from the floor. "Still, you could have refused, you're intelligent. I'll give you that. You couldn't have come up with a better plan?" She puffs out her chest, wearing her bravado like invisible armour, she takes a step forward planting herself directly underneath his nose. "Did you really have to use him?"
Loki falters and it unnerves her for a split second. He sniffs and lifts his chin. "You should ask Thor, your precious companion, you enjoy him so much, ask him when have I ever cared for human lives?" He spits.
"Bullshit. Now I know you're lying. If we mean so much to you, you could have obliterated us with the death machine you set on Thor back in New Mexico. But you didn't. Because that wasn't your plan."
Loki's face turns a pale shade of white, even for him. "I'm…"
Nat takes in a shaky breath. Feeding off the adrenaline in her veins. "Now, I'll ask you for the last time. Was he pulling your strings?"
He makes a sound in the back of his throat, eyes darting at everywhere but her's.
Loki nods. Once. If she wasn't paying the slightest bit of attention she would have missed it.
His eyes, downcast, scorned.